


A Handful of Summers

by Eternaladdict



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternaladdict/pseuds/Eternaladdict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Girl!Sam growing up and the sacrifices she’s prepared to make to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer 1995

There’s no need to ask. Sam knows what it means when she comes back from the latest school, heat of a Georgia summer sticking her shirt uncomfortably against her skin, to find her father packing books into familiar battered cardboard boxes. She’d seen the Impala in the yard as she walked home, trunk open wide. Her father only does that when he’s getting ready to go.

"Going somewhere?" she asks anyway, as if John’s the only one leaving. As if there’s a chance this time he might let her stay. She lets the porch door slam behind her.

"Hey Sammy"

He smiles, a tired, worn kind of smile but doesn’t stop packing. When she’d left in the morning the kitchen table had been loaded with guns ready for cleaning. She’d eaten her cereal amid the metal 

The table’s empty now, guns packed away carefully and Sammy knows that’s that. No hope of winning an argument because how can she object to leaving when there are monsters on the loose, when people are probably dying. But she just started to have a life here, had just got on the debate team, even made a couple of friends and it’s not fair that she has to leave it all behind. 

It’s not fair and he doesn't care and she knows she shouldn’t either, should be focused on this monster fighting hero kick her family seems to love so much but she doesn’t want this life, never has. 

"Dean's gone to let Jack know he's quitting. Won't be gone long." And Sam swears John doesn't even look bothered, as if he isn't the least bit concerned at dragging his son away from the only job he's ever truly loved. 

"Get your stuff together, we're heading off in a bit."

She doesn't move.

"Where we going?"

John looks at her and frowns, like he's considering berating her but seems to decided against it.

"Going up to Bobby's for a bit" he answers with false patience. "Town's got a ghoul problem he can't get a handle on on his own. How you feel about going to help him out?" 

She wants to laugh at him, at the way he likes to pretend she has a choice. But there's anger always present these days, a cruel, restless creature just beneath her skin and she's suddenly too furious to speak.

The door to her and Dean’s room slams satisfyingly and she just stands with her back pressed to the wood, livid, desperate, burning with the injustice of it all.

Dean’s bed is in the far corner near the window and stripped, his blankets and pillow arranged neatly next to his duffel like the dutiful solider their father so loves him for being. The floor looks bare without his dirty clothes dotted about like decoration. 

The bed nearest the door is hers, though she finds excuses often enough to crawl into Dean’s. There’s a stack of books sprawled haphazardly across the covers from this morning when she’d rummaged through them in a rush, frantically searching for the English text she need for her first morning’s class. She needn't have bothered now. 

Sam pushes the textbooks to the floor and climbs beneath the covers. Reaching for a battered copy of any old fiction book she makes herself a sanctuary, floats in the problems of someone else's life, so lost that she doesn’t hear Dean knocking, comes back to herself with a start as he sits down next to her. There isn’t enough space and the angle is awkward. His body twists, half falling off the side. Sam doesn’t move to help him.

"Time to go kiddo"

And just like that she’s furious again.

"I don’t want to go"

"Come on Sammy, you’ll do fine in the next place." Dean’s voice is gentle, coaxing. He reaches out to twirl a strand of her hair around his finger. "We’ll find you a new school soon as we get there, I promise. You’ll only miss a week or two."

He just doesn’t understand. For Sam this isn’t just about changing schools, or leaving behind friends or constantly having to pack up her whole life into one duffel bag. It’s all of those things and a hundred more but she doesn’t have the words to tell him. 

She wants to tell him that it’s about knowing (really knowing, like the way she knows the sun will rise tomorrow or that Dean loves the Impala) that this is never going to be enough for her. She cannot live this life. 

But it’s far too big a thing to say out loud. Life-changing, heartbreaking. It means loosing the only people in the world that love her and Sam hasn’t got the guts.

"I don’t want to go!" she repeats instead but Dean’s hands are moving, seeking out the ticklish places beneath her ribs and she can’t help the squeal she lets out as he digs his fingers in, holding her down as she tries to squirm away, any last hope of argument stolen away with her laughter.


	2. Summer 1996

They're just past Mesquite, right on the border; the vast emptiness of Arizona looming in front of them, as bleak as the vast emptiness of Nevada at their backs. Sam stands naked in front of a bathroom mirror of the latest cheap motel room that might as well be anywhere and imagines herself as she could be. 

She's pretty handy with a gun, can just about hold her own in a fight but she sees her brothers eyes follow girls in diners as they flutter their eyelashes and serve him pie, watches men in bars fawn over attractive but brainless women, catches even her father looking sometimes and thinks real power can lie in the long line of bare legs and heavy lidded eyes smoky with eyeliner. 

She thinks if only she were allowed a chance she could have that kind of power too.

Her height used to embarrass her, made her awkwardness harder to hide but she’s growing to like the long length of her legs, toned with the hours of training she resents, enjoys the way they look draped over her brothers lap as the lie on the sofa watching stupid re-runs of the A team, the way his hand runs along her ankle as if without his permission. 

She catches Dean looking at her breasts sometimes. Not with the same lust filled judgement of the boys at school but with something like surprise, as if he looked up one day and his kid sister with her over sized tee shirts and scabby knees had turned overnight into a stranger with breasts and sharp cheekbones and dark, slanted eyes he doesn’t recognize.

Sam knows she’s pretty, thinks maybe she could be beautiful if she was allowed to try. Dark kohl for her eyes, a decent haircut, clothes that weren’t baggy thrift store hand me downs. These aren’t things a Winchester is allowed to want.

But she watches Dean watch girls and wants to scream. Girls with long hair and low tops, material stretched tight over their curves, his eyes following the way their hips sway in high heels, and she’s sick with the jealousy of it. Feels like a little kid in her baggy shirt and jeans, like a lumberjack ready for work, or worse a just an awkward ugly girl in cheap clothing, nothing special to look at. 

There are days when Sam wishes she was the boy her father would have preferred.


	3. Summer 1997

Washington darkness is darker than other states. It seems to be growing, no shapes visible in the black and Sam fumbles for the bedside light with shaking hands. The light flooding the room is immediately calming and she stares up at the ceiling, following patterns in the plaster as she tries to get her breathing under control.

She'd dreamt she'd left them, left her family. For something great, something glittering and beautiful and just out of her reach. She hadn't been able to get to it, no matter how hard she'd tried and when she'd given up, turned back in defeat, gone home to her father and Dean, they weren't there anymore. Guilt tastes metallic on her tongue.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is soft, gentle. The light must have woken him.

Springs creak reluctantly as he gets out of bed and moves to hers. She shifts over so he can lie down and they stay like that for a while, face to face, his hand playing with her hair.

There's a tension that has been growing between them for a long time, invisible, unspoken. She can feel it between them now, heavy and charged, the same way static electricity makes the fine hair on her arms stand up and her skin prickle.

"Bad dream" she whispers, part explanation, part apology. She's reluctant to raise her voice, as if any loud noise, any sudden movement might break this current between them.

He doesn't ask her what she dreamt and Sam thinks if she ever had the guts to kiss him it would be now, with each of his freckles standing out like pointers on a map and no space between them but the distance she creates.

She can see the flecks of hazel in the green of his eyes and never wants to look away. They're the only two people in the world.

Dean moves to touch his forehead against hers and shuts his eyes. He’s breathing funny now, ragged. It sounds very loud in the quiet of the room and Sam can’t seem to breathe at all, terrified to move in case he pulls away.

"Were you frightened" he asks her and she doesn't recognise his voice like this, the low whisper as dark and smooth as chocolate.

"No" she breathes, forces herself to keep her hands at her sides limply while he moves his restlessly, gripping the tops of her arms for a moment before moving impatiently to her face and then to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. 

"You frightened now?" His forehead is against hers. She can't see his eyes to read them but can feel the silent tremors in his limbs, the shaking of his hands and she thinks perhaps he is the one that's afraid. She moves her lips against his in answer. It's not quite a kiss, just a light touch of her lips against his. They stay like that for a moment, breathing each other's air and then suddenly it's as if something in Dean has broken open and his hands are everywhere, impatient. They are on her neck, turning her face to the side so he can mouth at the skin there and then to her breasts, finding and rolling her nipples through her shirt and it doesn’t feel like the first time he’s ever touched her there, the first time anyone’s touched her there. When he runs his hand up the length of her right leg, pressing it to the heat between her legs and stroking her through the light cotton of her panties she can only arch into it, wanton and burning, desperate to touch him too, to make him feel what she's feeling.

"Sam" he says, low and rough and she thinks it might be a question but there isn’t a chance to answer before he’s rolling them both so she’s on her back and he’s on top of her. "God" he groans, pressing against her as she shakes helplessly against him, wanting so much her palms are tingling with it and she can’t stay still any more and bucks up against him, angling her hips for the greatest friction.

She can feel him hard against her thigh, his need reflecting her own and she loves it, loves every damning moment of it, never wants it to end. She moves her hand under the waistband of his sweats. He moans again, a desperate low noise she’s never heard from him before. The sound of it curls heavy and low in her belly, making her wet between her legs as effectively as a touch. The muscles of his stomach twitch against her skin. She squirms her hand down further, so very close, aching to feel him but suddenly his hand is around her wrist, holding her back.

"Sammy" he groans again, eyes still closed and she brings her free hand up to his face, desperate for him to look at her, to see the need she’s no longer pretending to hide. 

Wrapping her fingers tight in his hair she yanks, bringing his head up so he’s finally looking her in the eyes. There’s a moment, a heartbeat's pause, where they stay like that, breathing ragged half breaths and Sam is sure Dean is going to kiss her. But he doesn’t move, doesn't free her wrist, just stays frozen and trapped in his uncertainty. 

There's a decision to be made here, in the quiet of the night. If Dean can't make it Sam knows she can. 

She lifts her head and kisses him, hard and sure, her mouth open and wet and honest. 

There's no more hesitation after that.


	4. Summer 1998

Two months in Mississippi, just her and Dean. A thousand miles to the east their father fights monsters nobody believes in.

Eight weeks of heat and routine and the feel of Dean's skin, the salty taste of him as he comes. Long afternoons spent in the library studying. Lazy weekend mornings in bed when they should be training. Finger-shaped bruises across her thighs. Soccer practice. A school dance.

Eight weeks of freedom.

The ninth week and Sam comes home from school to find her father returned and Dean packing. As quickly as that, it's over.

"Got a call from Bobby" John tells her before she can protest. His head is bent over some ancient looking blueprints and he doesn’t look up as he speaks to her. There's a fading bruise high on his left cheek and a cut above his eye.

"Something’s killing kids in Wyoming, looks to be our kind of deal."

Dean doesn't look at her, keeps his head down as he carefully packs away bottles of salt and holy water. Sam knows he likes it here, though he's never said. He's got friendly with a couple of guys a few doors down, they go drinking together every so often. He gets on well with his boss even if he doesn't love construction work all that much. One word from their father and he's ready to leave it all behind.

She's not so obedient.

"I’m not going" she says and it’s meant to come out angry, to be screamed at him, shouted, thrown in his face so loud and so clear it can’t possibly be ignored anymore. ‘I’m not going’ she says and it’s a whisper. He doesn’t seem to hear at all.

"Pack your things Sam" he says when she shows no signs of moving, his voice a command.

She'll never get used to this.

"We only just got here".

"I'm not having the same god damn argument with you every time we leave a place Sammy!" her father's voice has lost it's control now.

"Then maybe we shouldn't keep leaving."

"This is something important. We're saving lives. That comes before debate team or your SAT scores. Dean gets it, why the hell don't you?!"

"YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DOESN’T GET IT! You never have." Something's building now in her now and she doesn't want it to stop. Dean shifts anxiously in the corner of her vision. "Most parents would be grateful for a child who worked so hard in school!"

"MOST PARENT'S DON'T KNOW WHAT I KNOW! I'M TRYING TO PROTECT YOU, TO KEEP YOU ALIVE." He's outright yelling now and there was a time when Sam might have cringed away, might have been frightened but now she feeds on his anger, hungry for a reaction.

"WHAT KIND OF LIFE IS THIS? IT’S INSANE."

"People are DYING Sam, I have to go."

Everything seems to be spiraling and she can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop. "People are dying everywhere, of a hundred different things. You want go, fine but leave me behind! I'm done with your fucking crusade."

"Watch your mouth young lady."

His voice has gone deadly quiet and now she is frightened, just a little, because John has never raised a hand to either of his children but he's taking a step towards her, following as she recoils and there's something in his eyes, a kind of wild desperation she recognizes in herself. For a moment he doesn't look like himself, seems more like a stranger on the edge of something but then Dean's there between them and just like that John stops, his shoulders slumped, the fight gone out of him.

"Please Sammy" he says quietly, not looking at her but at the collection of boxes on the kitchen table. 

She thinks of the Stanford application form, folded carefully in the bottom of her duffel bag, thinks of the all the promises it holds and then she looks at Dean, standing between her and John, always so ready to protect them from each other and themselves. From this angle she can make out the ever-increasing grey in her father’s hair. Beneath his anger he looks tired. 

She loves them both and it’s not enough.

The anger’s faded now and she feels embarrassed, almost guilty, wants to run as she always does but there’s the application form in her bag, an escape route and Sam knows now is not the time for lies. She's on the edge of something too. 

Sam forces herself to meet her father’s eyes.

"I won’t live like this" she tells him, trying to make her voice loud, strong. It’s the most honest thing she’s said to her father in ten years.

There’s no going back from this, as close to an ultimatum as she’ll ever have the guts to give and she doesn’t want to go back. She can see Dean in the corner of her eye, looking both miserable and surprised and she loves him so much, wants desperately to talk to him, to explain but she can’t look away from her father. He meets her eyes.

After a moment he breaks the silence. "Children are dying. Pack your bags."


	5. Summer 1999

In the end there isn’t anything more to say. 

John wakes her early, hand shaking roughly at her shoulder. The sun’s not yet up and the motel room is still dark as she struggles towards awareness. They’re somewhere south of Dallas.

"Got a lead on yellow eyes" he tells her, voice gruff with sleep "You be ok on your own for a couple of days?"

Over her father’s shoulder she can see Dean dressed and ready to go, weapons already cleaned and carefully packed in the holdall over his shoulder. He grins at her as she meets his eyes and even in the dimness they’re shinning with excitement at the promise of a hunt.

Her family have always so willing to leave everything behind. She used to believe they’d leave her behind if she didn’t keep up.

"Sure" she nods, false smile in place and then "Be careful", because it’s the last honest thing she can think to say to either of them. Dean winks at her as they leave.

Sam waits for the sound of the impala to fade before she showers and dresses, makes the bed military style like she’s been taught. She packs without urgency, careful to take only the essentials and only what’s hers. Dean’s iron maiden tee shirt, worn soft with so many washes and her favorite thing to sleep in for that reason, is left behind. She doesn’t take any weapons, doesn’t take any salt. There are no photos even if she’d wanted one. 

She leaves her Stanford acceptance letter on the bedside table as an explanation, doesn’t have the guts for a note.

"Goodbye" she tells the empty room and that’s the very last thing she has to say. It’s her turn to leave her family behind.

The sun's half blinding as she opens the motel door but it's a beautiful morning, sky an endless summer blue and Sam doesn't hesitate as she steps into freedom.


End file.
